


Of Sprints & Javelin Tosses

by Dikhotomia



Series: 2020 Fódlan Summer Olympics [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 100 Meter Sprint, Byleth has a sad, Dimitri is trying his best, F/F, Fodlan Summer Olympics, Gen, Javelin Toss, and then a gay, angst fluff and humor all in one, sports AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:41:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25973053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dikhotomia/pseuds/Dikhotomia
Summary: Two Athletes, Two stories.Byleth has been training her whole life to be the best at her chosen sports as she could be, working herself to the bone and beyond, but it isn't enough for her. So here at the Olympics she finds herself wondering, what is she competing for? To prove herself? To prove somethingtoherself? She yearns to find the answer.Dimitri? Dimitri is just here to toss some Javelins, shout his heart out and win. It's not that complicated.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth
Series: 2020 Fódlan Summer Olympics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881421
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	Of Sprints & Javelin Tosses

There's something distinctly odd about standing in the one place she had worked so hard to get to. Something otherworldly about being in the arena with countless other athletes from all over the country, the world, and watching the ceremony unfold along with being a part of it. For a moment she's lost herself in the high of the crowd, in the mass of movement and noise and color. It feels right, even as the sense of accomplishment at being where she is peters out as soon as the need to focus kicks in.

Byleth had finally gotten here. She’d trained until she thought she might drop. Run herself ragged, skinned knees and elbows and palms, practiced shooting until she thought her fingers might bleed. Swam until her mother would tease her about one day turning into a fish. "Do you live in the pool now?" Her father had asked her once, and she'd shrugged.

"Maybe," she'd replied, half a smirk pulling at her lips. "Maybe not."

Everything she ever put her mind to, she trained to be as good as she could be at it. Running, swimming, shooting, horseback riding, fencing. It didn't matter, she strived to be the best, to prove that she could do it no matter the odds.

At least, in the beginning that's what she thought she wanted.

_ "The problem with being a jack of all trades, is you'll never quite be a master at anything." _

The words stuck true, she was good, she was great even, but it was never enough. She pushed harder, harder, harder, climbing and falling and ending up all over constantly.

"All this training is kind of unhealthy," her brother told her once, finding her sitting underneath a tree in the shade, half a jug of water drained. She felt like jello at that point, sweating and exhausted and laughing.

"Gotta live, eat, and breathe all these sports," she'd replied, shrugging a shoulder. "I'm fine." And she was fine— she had a family who supported her, had enough proof that she was good at what she did— but there was something hollow and rattling in her that wasn't satisfied.

It was never satisfied, always straying just out of her reach and leaving her trying to puzzle out what it was.

"Are you really happy with all this?" Someone asked her once, pausing her in her steps and leaving her to think about the answer too long.

"Yea," she'd replied. "I am."

_ So why was she always pushing? _

The question had haunted her all the way to now, standing in her room in the Olympic village, gym bag in hand and the same determined fire a low simmer in her chest.  _ This time _ , she tells herself, finding places for things and settling down for the night.  _ This time she would figure out the answer to her question. _

She wakes with the sun as she always has, pale light barely enough to filter through the curtains and chase the shadows from the room. She lays there in the tangle of sheets for a moment, breathing in and out, rubbing her hands down her face and through her hair. Then she's up, slipping free of her bed and going through the morning routine; dress, breakfast, warm up stretches and then a run around the village.

It’s still cool, the evening chill having not quite given away to the summer heat. Sunlight filters through the haze and dew still clings to everything that it can, giving the village an almost ethereal feel. She jogs at a leisurely pace, breathing even and steady, keeping watch for other people.

The last thing she needed to do was run headlong into another competitor before she even got into the arena and had a chance to run her sprint. She couldn’t imagine being disqualified because she was benched with a collision injury. The thought makes her smile to herself, a breath of laughter escaping into the morning air.

Still, it’s hard to ignore the way she feels, focus dropping down to the ground passing underneath her feet. Inch by Inch, mile by mile. It gets worse as she goes, settling into her fingers and her toes, her jaw clenching slightly until she reminds herself to relax it.

Didn’t need to chip a tooth either.

Unconsciously she makes another circuit, a familiar feeling of anxiety making itself at home in the pit of her stomach. Her jog is faster, and she does her best to let the morning air chase away everything. She has to focus, to dedicate herself entirely to her sprint today.

It was the first step, the first day to set the tone for the rest of her events.

She makes it back with time to spare, sitting down for a drink and another small meal for an energy boost. She doesn't think, doesn't let her mind wander too far beyond every motion and step and breath she takes. It was a kind of skill she had honed over the years of training and competing, like a switch she flipped when it was time to compete. The world shut off outside her and her opponents, there was no crowd, no cheering or shouting.

Focus, pure and absolute. When she was like this no one could really interrupt her, not until she had done whatever it was she had set her mind to.

"You're like some kinda demon," her brother had teased after a sparring match, both of them sitting on a bench nursing their half finished sport's drinks. "Super focused and intense, it'd be scary if I didn't know what you were like outside of it."

She'd laughed, elbowing him lightly in the side. "I'm going to take that as a compliment, because otherwise I'd have to put you in a headlock until you apologized."

"There's nothing to apologize for!" He'd shot back, leaning slightly away. "It's the truth, and besides, I did mean it as a compliment."

_ The Ashen Demon. _

At the time, she hadn't been entirely sure she liked the moniker she'd earned. Intentional or not, a joke between family or not, it made her seem like something she wasn't. But it had stuck with her, and she lived up to it time and time again until she simply accepted it for what it was. For what kind of competitor she was.

Determined.

Yet unmoored.

She leaves the village at the time she had wanted to despite her extra circuit, casting a singular glance at the clock as she throws her jacket on and zips it up. There’s others leaving as she is and she joins the crowd at the back, looking over each and every one of them as they go. She recognizes the various colors; Brigid, Dagda, Sreng, Almyra and Morfis, all of them blending into an easy multi color flow as they walk. Each heading to the arena. 

She sees it where it stretches in the distance, high and imposing and she recalls her first time ever competing. She had been nervous as ever, shaking and barely able to focus. She remembers the first time she ever looked up at the side of the stadium and the way her heart raced so fast she thought it might explode.

She had ended up on a bench with her mother fussing over her, a bottle of water in her hand and cool hands brushing against her forehead and cheeks. It was just nerves, nerves she shook just in time to make it to her event.

Barely, and Coach Alois had asked her to do her best to make it on time from now on between his usual pep talks, but she still was able to compete.

The locker rooms are as chaotic as she expects them to be as she heads inside with the others, more women coming and going, chatter scattered among the small groups of teammates and occasional joking remarks tossed between friendly rivalries. She doesn't join in any of it, simply getting ready and making her way out without so much as a 'hello' to anyone. It was, after all, getting down to the moment she had to completely lose herself to her focus.

The unconscious feeling of anxiety still hasn't left her completely, tingling in her fingertips and her toes. She tells herself it's fine, that if she worries it won't help her. Not here, not now.

All there is, is the race.

The rest will come later.

Her father finds her as she's warming up, stretching out muscles and breathing steadily. Legs, arms, torso-

She pauses when his hand rests atop her head, eyes flicking up to what little she can see of his face from the position he's caught her in. "What's up?" she asks, gently easing his hand off her head to better look up at him. His smile is lopsided, teeth flashing dully in the light.

"I came to impart some advice," He says, resting his hands on his hips. "I can see you're in that weird little jittery state you sometimes get in, stressing yourself out before you even get out there."

"Dad-" she starts, expression pinched.

"Don't try and argue, kid, I've watched you for too long not to see it," he cuts in, and the rest of her sentence dies in her throat, lips pursing and breath hissing out through her nose. He was right, there was no arguing about it. No way to convince him, and by extension herself, that there was nothing wrong.

Her drive was finally beginning to weigh on her, at least a little bit.

"Run like hell," her father says, smiling more. "Run like your ass is on fire, or some monster from your childhood nightmares is chasing you." He reaches out, tapping his fingers against her collarbone. "Use that stress, turn it into a weapon to help you win."

It's...not the greatest advice, or the most logical, but he's trying and it's certainly better than one of Alois' long winded puns.

"Imagining a monster might be more useful than imagining my running shorts on fire," she says, bewildered with herself for even entertaining the thought. "Since if my shorts were on fire I'd rather put it out then trying to run from it."

He laughs, and laughs, and laughs until she ends up laughing too, tears burning at the corners of her eyes and her lungs aching.

It helps.

"There you go," her dad says, reaching out and ruffling her hair. "You feel better don't you."

"Yea," she replies, sliding her fingers through her hair to fix the disarray he had left it in. "I do. Thanks dad."

Her mother and brother are the next to find her, both giving her a hug and wishing her good luck. 

"We'll be cheering for you on the sidelines," her mother says, pulling her in for a second hug. "So go out there and get them."

"I will," she replies, hugging her mom back.

She heads out the arena stretching before her, just as imposing on the inside as it is from the outside. She looks out from her spot as she walks, eyes falling on the long stretch of red where each of the sprints had been run. She could barely make out the markings for each of them; 100, 200 and 400 all broadly painted in the largest numbers, the rest penciled in between. In the center it’s all fake grass, some staff and officials standing around the edges of it or clustered on the side closest to the stands.

Focus.

She blinks once, turning her eyes back to the cluster of competitors as she clears her mind until the only thing she thinks about is each step she takes and each breath that fills and leaves her lungs. She focuses on the steady pound of her heart and the way her muscles shift and pull as she walks all the way up to the starting line. She's limber and ready, eyes drawing over the crowd and all the faces watching.

Some she can make out, most are just a blur settled higher in the stands.

Her competition is next. Each of them look ready, all whipcord muscle and determined tilts to their expressions; she thinks she recognizes a few of them from other events she’s sprinted in, picking out a few names and recalling their placings. She stood aside at least two of them on the podium before, tall and grinning as their medals were draped around their necks. There’s none of that here, and she catches eyes, noting the flash of familiarity in the few she thinks she knows.

She grins, one woman nods.

She doesn't pay any mind to the noise as she takes her position, fingers pressed to the ground, feet set in the starting holds. She doesn't hear whatever the announcers might be saying, listening for the sound of the gun.

She winds, muscles coiling and tensed, fingers pressing down into the ground, feet shifting ever so slightly. She counts; 3, 2, 1-

Bang.

And she goes, pushing off from the ground and barreling forward like an arrow shot from a bow. Faster, faster, feet pounding the ground, eyes forward, heart thundering and breath sawing through her lungs. She runs with the true thought of being chased, runs like her livelihood depends on it with the sight of others out of her peripheral. She pulls ahead early, flying down her lane with the knowledge that there are others nipping at her heels. She can hear them behind her, their steps, their breathing, each of them pushing just as hard as she was to get in the same position she was in.

50 meters and she can see someone just out of her peripheral— a hand, a knee. She digs her foot in harder on the next step, pelting forward as fast as she possibly can. 30 meters, the woman from before is a shadow now, too close for comfort and gaining until she’s there at Byleth’s side, neck and neck with her. Her own strides just long enough she could still win. 

20 meters, she pushes harder, focuses farther, heart racing, blood rushing in her ears. Her muscles burn, pushed to their limits, but the racer beside her manages to keep pace. 

15 meters and the woman beside her pulls a little ahead, then a little more. Byleth pushes for that last bit of energy, pushes just that much faster until the two of them are side by side again, running nearly in tandem. The crowd has gone silent, every single person there waiting on bated breath to see which of the two would win. 

She catches sight of another coming up on her other side, fingers splayed slightly with each pump of her arms. She’s not close enough to overtake her now, so Byleth doesn’t pay her any more mind then she already had. 

10 meters, the woman in third place has been replaced by another on her far side, gaining.

5 meters, they’re all staggered, Byleth and the woman beside her mere centimeters apart with the third woman trailing them by mere inches. They’re all out of breath, and all running with every fiber of their being.

They hit the finish line almost at the same moment, a flash finish of stretched legs and wound arms, the crowd erupting in a loud roar of cheers and chants. She feels hollow, knowing in her mind it wasn't enough to take the gold, knowing that she'd have to settle for silver. Her thought is confirmed a moment later when the loudspeaker crackles and the announcement filters through. She hears her name announced second, and her lips press as she struggles to catch her breath again, heart sinking to the pit of her stomach.

She feels devastated, a part of her rattling a little loose as she congratulates the other racers on a good run. It's not enough.

This isn't enough. It's not good enough and she hates the feeling that sinks its claws into her as she makes her way back to the locker room to shower and change, standing under the hot water in an attempt to wash it away. It doesn't set a very good pace for the rest of her events, she thinks, drying herself off and pulling her sweats and jacket back on.

It just meant that she'd have to try that much harder, push that much farther.

"You're up against people who dedicate their entire lives to a single sport," her mother says when she runs into her family. "You dedicate yourself to so many, and you do so well at all of them. You should absolutely be proud of what you've accomplished."

She should be, she wants to be, and she forces a smile and convinces herself a few minutes that she is. It's silver, it's second place, she medaled. She reminds herself she could have not medaled at all, that she could have raced horribly, but she didn't. She raced her best.

There was just someone better, someone who had trained that much longer and that much harder. She smiles easily throughout the medal ceremony. Through the announcements, watching as Rhea wanders across the carefully curated grass to them, medals in hand. She ducks her head for the other woman to slide it around her neck when it’s her turn and leaves it to sit heavy against her chest. She waves as the crowd cheers and a roll of chants of her name surges through like a wave. It’s a nice high, she tells herself as she steps off the podium with the other winners, parting ways with them to reach her team. Her brother is the first to meet her, throwing an arm around her shoulder and laughing when their father joins them and picks them both up.

Byleth laughs with him, one hand steadying herself on her father’s shoulder as he hugs her; her mother hovers nearby until her father puts them down. She takes her turn, wrapping her up and holding her close, pressing words of encouragement to her temple. She knows Byleth isn’t feeling well, knows that the second place has gutted her. She also knows what to say, and it lifts her spirits a little more.

It lasts until she's alone and the weight presses in on her again, dragging her down and leaving her a little listless as she wanders—sliding fingers through her hair and heaving a sigh. She wanders, idle, tired—thinking that maybe she'd return back to her room at the village and try to relax.

That thought lasts up until she pauses to watch some other athletes practice for another event. Pole vaulting, she realizes, catching sight of one woman in particular. She's a sight, all white hair and intense focus. She's beautiful. Byleth finds herself fixated as the other woman warms up, watching intently as she runs and moves with such effortless grace.

She's slack jawed by the end of it, feeling a little stupid once she catches herself and clicks her mouth shut, teeth rattling in her skull. "Okay," she mutters to herself, changing her plans. "I guess I'll hang around to watch the pole vaulting."

\--------

_ It's a close thing _ , Dimitri thinks, arms crossed and eyes focused on the sight of the two racers blasting across the finish line. A neck and neck thing with simple centimeters to spare; by a foot, by the tip of a finger. He feels bad for the woman who had been ahead for most of the race, can see the lines of carefully hidden devastation that flicker there before she abolishes it entirely. It's a feeling he understands, coming so close and then falling short just at the last second.

But that, he also knows, is just the way of the athlete. You can put your mind, body and soul to something and become the best you can be, but there will always be someone, somewhere, that's better. You might never meet them, but they're still out there.

He had run across more than one of them in his past competitions, and it had just pushed him to work harder. Throw harder, train harder—until he thought his arms might fall off—and endure his mother's gentle chastising afterwards. "You're going to hurt yourself if you aren't careful," she'd say, rubbing his shoulder. "And how will you compete then?"

"Through sheer, thick-headed stubbornness," Felix had offered, arms crossed and look annoyed.

_ The Professional Disaster, _ Sylvain called him, ribbing him lightly between practices after his mother and Ingrid both had insisted he actually tie his hair up instead of leaving it down.

It was a way of life, succeeding, failing, placing in spots you didn't want to but did anyway. "Every medal is a win," he mutters to himself quietly, offering a silent congratulations to the runners and turning away in time to catch sight of Edelgard weaving through the crowd. Their eye contact is brief, and he has enough time to raise an eyebrow at her before she's gone, dipping out of sight like a ghost in the mist.

He wonders what it was about the sprint that brought his step sister here. Probably boredom -- it wasn’t as though they had much else to do between training and getting ready for their own events. It wasn't really any of his business what she did and why she did it, so he dismisses the thought as quickly as it had come. He has his own event to focus on, and he tells himself to do just that as he heads back, hands in his pockets and head down.

It wasn't going to be an easy time; he'd seen some of the people he was up against earlier, all of them strong, all of them here for the same reason he was.

To win.

"Why do you always yell when you throw?" Someone had asked once, catching him at the end of a practice set, throat raw and lungs aching. "Doesn't that waste energy?"

He hadn't been in the mood to entertain someone, focus skewed by their sudden appearance. 

"No," he'd said, taking a long drink of water and wiping the sweat off his brow with a towel he'd brought with him. "It gives me energy, which is why I yell. It helps me throw farther." He was immediately reminded of Felix in the skeptical look the stranger had given him, brow pinched, lips thinned into a frown.

But where Felix had shaken his head and said 'Idiot' the stranger had simply shrugged and said, 

"Try not yelling when you throw next time, focus it into winding up."

_ I'm not looking for advice _ , he'd thought, teeth pressed lightly to his tongue to keep himself from giving his thoughts a voice. He wasn't going to stop what worked for him, even if, for humors sake, he had tried.

He'd thrown arguably worse.

To hell with that.

"Keep practicing," the stranger had added, standing a little away from him. "Once you get enough energy into the wind up you'll throw way better then if you're spending it yelling."

"Thank you," he'd replied, leaning on his last Javelin. "I appreciate you taking time out of your day to give me advice."

Unsolicited as it was.

"You're welcome."

And that, had been that.

In the end he had somewhat ended up taking the advice offered, giving himself a little more time to wind up his throw before launching it with a roar. It had stuck with him all the way till now, influenced his practice throws and did well to disperse any pre-competition jitters. _ Get focused, get angry, throw as hard as you can, as far as you can. _

His words to live by.

He had two rounds if he was lucky, the qualifiers and the finals. He was ready for them both, fingers curled around the Javelin, heart and mind steady.

"Already done your practice throws?"

He turns to find Sylvain, Felix and Ingrid all standing a little behind him. Sylvain wearing his usual grin, Ingrid and Felix both looking moderately—severely, in Felix's case—exasperated. Dimitri chooses not to ask.

"Yes," he replies. "All there is to do now is throw my best in the qualifiers."

"Yell your heart out," Felix says. "Show them how serious you are, shake them up."

"I don’t particularly wish to shake them up," Dimitri replies, frowning. He knew his yelling could be alarming for people, but he didn't want to cause his competition to not do as well.

Felix rolls his eyes. Sylvain laughs.

"Do it anyway," Sylvain says, raising his hands slightly. "If that throws them off then it throws them off, it’s not your problem, it’s theirs. Besides if they’re as good as they look they probably yell too."

It's Ingrid's turn to roll her eyes, sighing.

"I suppose," Dimitri replies, shifting. "If they enjoy their sport they would put their heart and soul into competing. They train all their lives for it, I can’t fathom someone not enjoying their chosen sport."

The other man smiles then laughs. "Damn right," he says, resting his hands on his hips. "None of us would be here if we weren't doing it because we enjoyed it on some level."

An announcement echoes, interrupting further conversation with a call for the athletes involved in the next event. His. He breathes, nodding to himself as Sylvain reaches out to pat him on the shoulder.

"Go show them how it's done," Ingrid says. "We'll be cheering for you."

Felix nods.

"Thank you," he says, and then he's gone, heading off out into the field with the rest of the people in his group. He doesn't pay more than a passing glance at the crowd, vaguely registering the noise of it all before he turns his attention to the competitors with him.Their faces are all set in the same grim line he knows his is.

He watches as others throw, eyes tracing the arcs of their javelins and the fluid motion of muscle and body. It weighs on him a little, gauging just how far some of these people have thrown their javelins, just how powerful they are.

_ Always someone better _ , he thinks.

But maybe this time he could be that ‘someone better.’

As his turn rolls around, he hefts his javelin, listening as the announcer prattles on and on as he hypes himself up, bouncing from foot to foot, testing the weight of the metal in his hand. He runs, he throws, voice echoing among the crowd's as his javelin sails through the air. Just shy of eighty meters.

Not the best, but he cycles back and waits. Waits up till he gets his second throw, hurling the Javelin with that much more force, body and mind all in. Just over eighty meters.

It's enough.

His friends find him once he's done, drinking Gatorade and huddled into his coat. "Nice job out there!" Sylvain says, reaching out and messing up his hair. "You're in the finals!"

"See? He yelled loud enough," Felix says, a faint smirk on his face.

"He did yell loud," Ingrid agrees, sitting down beside him. "I'm pretty sure the whole stadium heard him."

Dimitri sighs, feeling more than just the heat from exertion burning on his cheeks.

"Please, don't get too happy yet," he cuts in between their chatter at his expense. "I haven't won yet." As good as he felt, as confident as his qualifying throw made him, he still had to throw in the finals. And he had to throw better.

"You'll do fine, man," Sylvain says, and Ingrid echos it.

He lets their words bolster him.

He carries that confidence and that belief all the way until he's back in line with the other competitors. Each of their names echo around the arena, small introductions following as the competitors step up one by one, grinning and waving to the cameraman positioned a few feet in front of their line. He half watches as they part and make their way to the waiting area, sitting down or standing or chatting with the staff around them.

His gaze reaches up to the crowd, then out across the expanse of the stadium, the curved stretch of painted grass letting him know just how far he had to throw today. The qualifiers was one thing, the finals was another. It was an entirely different push, an entirely different weight that settled on his shoulders as he stepped up to the announcement of his name. He smiles, nodding his head at the gleaming lens and all the people he knows are probably watching from home. He flicks a wave as he heads off to join the other competitors, finding his own spot among the scattered seating and olympic staff wandering around. He had his break, had spent the better part of it watching other events, and checking in on how Edelgard was doing with her warm ups.

He did everything he could to distract himself and keep himself ready for this moment. He sits for a few seconds, head in his hands, shaking away the unease jittering about in his chest and in his limbs, then turns to watch the others. There’s a dozen of them, all focused on the man currently at the starting line, javelin in hand, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes set forward. Sreng, Dimitri thinks, leaning back in his seat slightly to watch as the man takes off at full speed, javelin drawing back as he takes his last step before the throw. The javelin flies, arching too high and ending up just shy of seventy meters.

The man from Dagda is next. He’s taller and more muscular, head and shoulders squared as he picks up his own javelin and makes his way to the starting line. He moves like a predator, all graceful lines and long, bounding steps that carry him to the throwing line fast enough he stops short as he hurls the lance, arms fanning out at his sides to keep his balance. His javelin flies in a better arch, soaring through the air and landing much farther than the man previous.

Eighty five, gold.

Then it’s him and he stands up with the announcement of his name, shaking out his arms and hopping from one foot to the other before he makes his way over to the rack to collect his own javelin, wound in the blue of his team. He thinks back to the unsolicited advice he was given as he makes his way to the starting box, smiling faintly to himself as he stares out over the field again. He’d thrown almost ninety meters before and he tells himself he can do it again.

Maybe even throw farther.

He shifts his hold, tossing the javelin a little up and down as he readies himself. Then he runs, strides long and springing like a big cat’s, eating the distance between the starting line to the throwing line. He brings his arm back, gauges the steps he has until he has to throw.

Then he does, letting the javelin fly with a shout and a stumble. He realizes as he watches that it’s arched too high, sailing too far up and plummeting down to bury itself just under eighty meters.

It's a small moment of horror for him, face frozen in shock, heart sinking in his chest. But it's fine, he thinks, he still has another chance. He breathes out a sigh and makes his way off the line, heading back to his chosen seat. He watches the rest of the men as they throw. 

A man from Brigid, who looks like he’s dancing as he runs down the lane, a grin on his face and a carefree attitude Dimitri wishes more people would hold. He watches the way his javelin soars as he throws, stopping just short of the line with a hop and a gleeful yelp.

Eighty six. The new gold.

A man from Almyra, a wall of muscle with a cocky grin that dissipates to seriousness as soon as his javelin is in his hand. Dimitri knows him as the champion from a few competitions ago, back to try and gain another gold for his country. Like the others he’s all grace, long strides and a powerful throw that sends the javelin flying, but not quite far enough.

Eighty four.

It cycles back to him and he stretches out his legs before he stands, grabbing his javelin and heading back to the starting line. He focuses, timing out his steps even before he takes them. The crowd builds up, chanting until it’s a deafening roar.

He runs with longer strides, drawing back his arm earlier and further and hurling it with all the force he can muster. He roars loud and pridefully like a lion even as he barely keeps his feet, fingers hitting the ground just before the line. He looks up in time to watch as the Javelin sails far past the distance he had originally thrown it, lower and almost perfectly arched. It buries itself at eighty eight meters, and he thumps his chest once as he walks back, raising his arms in a small celebration.

The man from Brigid throws again, all his dancer’s grace and hidden power sending his javelin flying even further than before, chipping the ninety meter mark and knocking him down into silver. He tells himself he can throw better, that he has to beat his original record to seize the victory for himself.

But he doesn't throw better than his first, despite the remaining attempts. 

However no one else throws better enough to unseat him from his silver medal. 

It stings, being so close, and he smiles slightly to himself thinking about the woman who ran the sprint and narrowly lost. He can commiserate even more now.

He takes it for what it is, vowing to do better in future competitions. He meets with the other competitors and congratulates them, sharing a few jibes and shaking hands. They head back to the locker rooms in a cluster, coats slung over shoulders or haphazardly pulled on. He showers, happy to wash the sweat and the grit off him, letting the hot spray soothe his muscles before he’s out, and pulls on his clothes and jacket before making his way back out.

He walks with the others who placed with him, heading to the podiums to accept their medals. It’s easy to stand there with the other two, the man from Brigid and the man from Sreng smiling and waving just as much as him. The crowd drowns out any announcements being made, all of them going wild chanting the names of each man as they get their medal. He bends down to accept his, closing his eyes as the fabric slides against his neck and sits heavy against his chest.

Dimitri straightens, holding his arms up and shouting with the crowd. Another lion’s roar that rattles in his throat and empties the air out of his lungs. It feels good, a small victory in the grand scheme of things. It’s one more medal for his team, even if it’s not gold.

His friends meet him as he heads down off the podium and across the grass, Ingrid and Sylvain at his sides. Ingrid pats his back, Sylvain ruffles his hair, knocking it loose from its tie and causing it to fall across his face. Felix looks more surly than usual, but still offers words of congratulations. “Another medal for the Blue Lions!” Sylvain shouts, taking the words from Dimitri’s mind and flinging them into the crowds still lingering around in the evening light.

“Here’s to more,” Dimitri agrees as they head back to the village for the night. It’s easy for them to fall into random chatter, talking about other events they had watched and how the competitors fared. “I saw Edelgard at the sprint,” he comments, once again finding himself wondering what was on his step sister’s mind. “I didn’t get to talk to her before she was off, presumably to continue warming up for her own event.”

“She was probably just bored,” Sylvain says. “You can only do so much training before you’re too ready and need something else to do.”

“I thought that myself,” he agrees, pausing out front of his room. “I’ll see you all later,” he says a second later, unlocking the room and pushing his way inside. “Night.”

“Goodnight!”

His phone is blinking with a message notification as he shuts the door behind him, sliding the lock home and peeling off his shoes. He hangs his coat up and heads over to it, picking it up to look at the messages there.

It’s from his mother, and he smiles as he reads it.

_ -I was in the stands watching, you did really well. I’m proud of you. _

He replies, then sets his phone back down on the nightstand before getting ready for bed and settling down for the night.

Content.


End file.
